


everyone's got someplace they want to be let in

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Series: everyone's got someplace they want to be let in [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Competitive sex, M/M, Rope Bondage, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"To be clear," Zevran said, offering his own glass to the Iron Bull on the correct assumption that he wouldn't much care what he drank from, "I have nothing against bedding married couples. I find it can be quite exhilarating."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>"Uh," Dorian said.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>"It's a joke," the Iron Bull said, grinning at Dorian. "Easy there, big guy. Nobody's gonna tie you to me."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	everyone's got someplace they want to be let in

**Author's Note:**

> support team: iambic, who fucked me over by offering suggestions which doubled the length of the fic (THANKS); serenityfails, who yelled enthusiastically and drew art (forthcoming); tchy, sunspeared & paperiuni, who Believed I Could; justjasper, my extra pair of eyes. Shoutout to coveredinfeels, whose Rilienus I shamelessly stole.
> 
> Dorian/Bull is primary, romantic; Zevran/Brosca is secondary, romantic. Dorian/Bull/Zevran is a series of escalating & competitive sexual adventures.
> 
> Thanks also to tchy & serenityfails for running Zevran Does Skyhold & so doing us all a huge favour.

"Brandy," Zevran said. "Brandy is the thing. Antivan, you must have some. No, no, don't give me that Fereldan swill of yours. I have had enough for three lifetimes."

A laugh from behind him. "Oh," an unfamiliar voice said, "I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you." Tevinter. Aristocratic, certainly. Amused. The newcomer laid his hand on the bar. Leather gloves covering only part of the hand, worn skin, well-kept nails. "All my considerable charm has yet to produce a passable brandy. Cabot, another of your Fereldan swill, if you would."

"Hm," the bartender said. Dark ale from a cask for the Tevinter and, with a look at Zevran which seemed strangely sly, a bottle of brandy fished out from under the bar.

" _Cabot_ ," the Tevinter exclaimed. "I am betrayed!"

"Are you," the bartender said.

"I might," Zevran said, "be persuaded to share. With a handsome man."

He turned, and found himself face to face with a man who must, indeed, be described as handsome by any reasonable measure. Light eyes in a dark face, full lips twitching into a lopsided smile. The slight wrinkles in the corner of his eyes became merely distinguished, worn without shame. Khol around the eyes. 

Quite the ideal, if Zevran had the measure of Tevinter's standards of beauty. A little conservatively dressed, perhaps. Well, the South _was_ cold. One must make sacrifices. He had the arrogance, at least. Not displeasing.

"In that case, I doubt you will find anyone more eminently qualified to drink with you," the man said, bending his head in a polite bow. "Dorian, of house Pavus. And you are Zevran Arainai."

"Please, please, merely Zevran," Zevran said, smiling. "I consider myself—disowned, if you will."

"Ah," Dorian said. "Well, aren't we all?"

Yes and no. Brosca, a Paragon in name, clung to the tenuous thread that was contact with his sister but would never go back to her, alienated from the city that celebrated him as a hero. Dear Leliana tore herself apart over the actions of her one-time worse half. 

We are as we were made, and now we are cast adrift.

"I will, I think, drink to that," Zevran said.

 

 

To play was always a delight.

"Yes, the Crows, of course," Dorian said. Swirled the brandy in his glass, considered how the lamplight was scattered and distorted through it and spilled out across the uneven surface of the table. "I'm quite sure they have their merits."

"Ah, Tevinter condescension. How fascinating," Zevran said. Smirked up at Dorian, eyes half-lidded. "I should tell you that I have killed, oh, at least seven members of the Order of Kios. Do not try to impress me."

Laughter. "Very well. But how many more Crows than that have you killed? If I am interpreting your claim to be disowned correctly."

"Yes, yes, rather more than seven. I suppose you have me there. But our methods have the greater artistry. Anyone may call themselves an assassin with the help of brute force and blood magic, no?"

That had Dorian's expression twisting in genuine distaste. "Indeed," was all he said. Tiredly, perhaps. Irritated, perhaps.

A moment of silence.

"I have heard of you as well, I should say," Zevran confessed.

Dorian settled back into himself, smiled that playful smile he favoured. "Only terrible things, I hope. One does have a reputation to maintain."

"In fact I am acquainted with several friends of yours," Zevran said. "If one may use the term broadly."

Dorian gestured acknowledgement.

"In particular, a young man who found himself temporarily unwelcome in Tevinter after a bit of a scandal had a great deal to say about you."

"What," Dorian said blankly, apparently shocked out of triviality. "Do you mean to say— _Rilienus?_ "

"Oh, yes," Zevran said. 

"And he simply—told you about me?"

They had been naked at the time; pillow talk could be so revealing.

"In bits and pieces," Zevran said. "In bed, generally. I suppose he thought he had made the story anonymous. In truth, I only put the pieces together when you gave me your name just now. Peacocks, you see?"

"He needn't have troubled," Dorian said. "Quite everyone in Tevinter was talking about it, I gather, although I was myself indisposed through the worst of it. What a foolish youth one led. But then you know the shape of it, in any case. The very model of a depraved Magister's son, but for the fact that I failed to pay lip-service to tradition. Rilienus was generally better at that. He married in the end, I believe. Rather a waste. He had no real taste for it. As you may perhaps have collected."

"Oh, no, there your information is quite incorrect," Zevran said. "He is not married in any sense Tevinter would recognise—has an Antivan lover, I believe."

Dorian blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, yes," Zevran said. "I'm surprised you didn't know."

"It seems to me," Dorian said, "that I ought to have words with my—with my sources."

Ah, and who has been telling Dorian Pavus untruths about the possibility of living one's life on one's own terms?

"Tell me—to lie with men, that is depraved?" Zevran asked, to break the moment without seeming to leap too dramatically away from the topic. Teasing and curiosity both. "How unusual. I should have expected whips, at least."

"Whips, I think, would have been more acceptable," Dorian said. "I'm indifferent, personally."

"You sadden me," Zevran said, with as much remorse as he could summon in the moment. "Here I had such hopes. Were there chains, at least? Or spanking, perhaps?"

"On occasion," Dorian said, and now he had finally grown a little flushed. 

Interesting.

 

 

Then there was the Qunari, of course. Dorian's flush had become a fixture in the way of the mildly drunk by the time the man arrived, and it only deepened at the sight of him. Very tall, very broad for a Qunari, as far as Zevran could tell; Sten would have looked only moderately large in comparison, surely. He was, in point of fact, more immediately familiar than Dorian himself. How _very_ much he would have to tell his beloved later.

"The Iron Bull," Dorian said, with emphasis on each word. "I was beginning to believe you had found someone more suited to your crude disposition to entertain yourself with."

"Oh," Zevran murmured, flicked his eyes from the Iron Bull to Dorian and back again. Some silent communication passed between them, suspected in the uneasy slant of Dorian's eyebrows, the Iron Bull's apparently easy smile. "Were you thinking you might bed me out of spite, perhaps? Or boredom? Were you not planning to bed me at all? This becomes more and more intriguing. Perhaps I should be insulted."

To his surprise, Dorian said nothing; surprising, also was the genuine humour in the Iron Bull's laugh.

"Can't think where I'd find anyone more suitable," he said, and Zevran looked over at Dorian a fraction too slowly, saw only the tail end of an unidentifiable expression being smoothed away. "Got caught up with Red and Brosca. Going to give a guy a drink, or you too busy flirting?"

"To be clear," Zevran said, offering his own glass to the Iron Bull on the correct assumption that he wouldn't much care what he drank from, "I have nothing against bedding married couples. I find it can be quite exhilarating."

"Uh," Dorian said.

"It's a joke," the Iron Bull said, grinning at Dorian. "Easy there, big guy. Nobody's gonna tie you to me."

"You are insufferable," Dorian said. "The both of you. Perhaps I ought to withdraw. You seem to deserve each other."

"Already had each other," the Iron Bull said. "Ansburg, right? That was a _bad_ job."

"But I did make it up to you," Zevran pointed out.

"Poisoned daggers," the Bull said amiably. "Good thing I'm tough."

"Zevran," Dorian said, focusing in on the essential point at last, "are you sincerely going to tell me that you've slept with everyone I know?"

Zevran shrugged easily. "Not your friend Sera," he said. "She is disinclined. And Varric merely laughed at me." He sighed with artfully overplayed drama. "Such a chest."

"For fuck's _sake_ ," Dorian said, and sounded for a moment far less Magisterial than was his wont. It made him rather more endearing. "I need another drink. No, no, give me the bottle, a glass isn't going to be sufficient."

"Dear me," Zevran said, pouring a glass for him and putting the bottle down on the far side of the table. "Are you feeling outdone?"

Dorian snorted, then coughed a little at the burn of the brandy. "Oh, but I should say that even if I cannot hope to match your admittedly impressive numbers I have a deal more _artistry_ ," he said, with pointed inflection.

Zevran laughed in delight. "Have a care, my depraved friend," he said, patted Dorian's hand. "That sounded rather like a challenge."

"Surely one can simply call on the Bull to adjudicate," Dorian said. His mouth twitched. He didn't remove his hand, although his eyes were on the Iron Bull.

"Hey now," the Iron Bull said. "Hey. That's not fair. Ansburg was five years ago, and I last fucked you—"

"Yes," Dorian said, loudly, over the end of that sentence. "I take your point, thank you."

"He set the curtains on fire," the Iron Bull said, with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Ah," Zevran sighed. "Truly, a happy occasion. I must ask—Tevinter and so on—are the rumours true? I refer to the things magic can do in the bedroom. I have heard such _stories_! The things these Southern Chantry mages get up to are so delightfully filthy in a repressed sort of way, but all the same—"

"If it is so very important to everyone present that we discuss what we get up to in, on and in the general vicinity of our beds," Dorian said, "I rather think we might at least have the grace to do it in private."

Ah, but everyone came with their own set of inhibitions. To lie with men is scandalous. Or to lie with them openly, perhaps? Well then. On the other hand: the corner in which they sat was quiet, hardly likely to be overheard. So, all things considered—

"To be clear," Zevran said, lifting the bottle as he stood, "I must ask if this is an invitation to indulge together or an invitation to _indulge_ together. I find it best to be direct. Misunderstandings are tiresome things, don't you think?"

Dorian raised an eyebrow at the Iron Bull. "I imagine you remember this one very fondly indeed."

"He's alright," the Iron Bull said, clapped an affectionate hand to Dorian's shoulder. A bold gesture, not the delicacy of a lover—not in the sweeping shape of it. But there were the details, also: his thumb moved gently across Dorian's bare skin, incongruous. "What do you say?"

A moment in which the entire thing seemed delicately balanced. Make the toss; the coin, landed, still spun on its edge. Golden light on the bottle of brandy, on Dorian's warm brown skin. Dorian's shadow and the Iron Bull's, motionless upon the table.

Dorian smiled. A wicked thing. A promising thing.

"I have my honour to defend," he said. "Outdone indeed. Come."

"Oh, I will," the Iron Bull said, and Dorian only rolled his eyes, smacked him lightly on the chest with the back of his hand as he stood.

"He uses that line every time, if you would believe it," he said.

Zevran shrugged. "It could always be worse. Be thankful he doesn't pretend to be a poet."

"Maker preserve me," Dorian said faintly. "My room, I think. However much some of us may enjoy announcing our activities to the entire tavern—"

"Yeah, yeah," the Iron Bull said. "You got it. Didn't mind on Tuesday, though."

"It isn't Tuesday," Dorian said, with what seemed to be _some_ form of significance; the encoded communications of the intimately involved, whether friends or lovers.

"Fair," the Iron Bull said, and Dorian, haughty once again, led them out and across the quiet grounds of the fortress.

 

 

What is love? It's freedom after all, isn't it, Isabela said, mouth curling in a way he didn't remember, but liked. They stood on the desolate coast and looked at the shift of the sea, merciless always. Hawke hung behind, shaking sand from her shoes, laughing at the ludicrousness of it all, and Isabela looked back over her shoulder, and her face softened. Safe harbour and a fair wind. 

You are loved, Brosca said. Love is a place you come home to. A gold ring in his ear like an anchor tied fast to Zevran's soul, like safety. Promises, promises, and for once Zevran had allowed himself to believe.

And, loved, he lived as himself. Played games. Stories to tell. An adventure, truly; had he not told Brosca so, once? Well then. Let us live adventurous lives.

Dorian's hand on the small of his back. 

"Here we are," he said, "this is us."

A warm, dim room in the corner of a tower, the gardens below. They had been empty, full of growing living things, carrying on with their secretive business even here in the mountains. Zevran imagined that the scent of the sweet peas that twined around trellised arches clung to the three of them still. 

A door closing.

Through the uneven glass of the windows, the lights of Skyhold and the stars above were distorted, like looking up from beneath shifting Rialto Bay water, the sea crystal clear but as living as the plants in the garden, as living as the three of them here. He had thought, once, to become—oh, no, not a thought to have now.

Relax into it.

"What do you like?" the Bull asked. Zevran tossed him the bottle of brandy, and he caught it easily, grinned. 

"I would like," Zevran said, "to defend my honour. I am very much an artist, you must know. How shall we do it? We must allow you a fair opportunity for comparison, I think."

In Ansburg, Zevran crossed his arms against the great twisting bulk of an ancient almond tree, forehead to forearm, the Iron Bull's hands—on his hip, on his chest—holding him clear of the ground as though it were nothing. The stretch of his cock pushing so slowly into Zevran, more and more, bigger than anything he'd ever taken. Would he have seen the shape of it from the outside, if he looked down at his stomach? The thought alone made him cry out, although the angle of their bodies never let him see. The broad spread of the Iron Bull's palm, his fingers, enough to brush both of his nipples at once.

Sunlight through leaves and branches, dappling. The scrape of bark against his arm, scratches that lasted for weeks.

In Skyhold, Dorian said, "He won't simply cooperate, you know. He's terribly wilful." That wicked smile again. Suppressed laughter looked good on him. "We might have to tie him down."

The Bull's breath rumbled from him. A huff, a laugh. "Oh, is that the game."

"You know very well," Dorian said, laughed, sighed. Fondness, undisguised. "Yes. That is, in fact, the game. If you've both a mind."

"Twist my arm, why don't you," the Bull said.

Zevran's turn to smile. "If I understand correctly, I do _believe_ that's the idea. Very well. Let us contrive to get you on your knees, as the lay sister said to the dancing girl."

 

 

And yes, indeed, the Bull looked quite wonderful on his knees. He knelt on the bed, head bowed; Dorian, behind him, arranged his arms—hand to elbow. Traced the shapes painted across the Bull's skin, no true vitaar but decoration only. Very fine, certainly.

"Pick a rope from the second drawer," Dorian said, glancing towards Zevran, towards the cabinet that stood close to the bed. Its top was cluttered with little jars and pots, a razor, a copper basin. The whole of it rattled precariously when the drawer stuck a little.

The Bull, unmoving, laughed. "Told you you keep too much crap on there."

"You tell me a great many things," Dorian said. "The majority of them are entirely ludicrous."

"Says the man who spent an entire evening telling me stories about the Templar barracks in Minrathous."

He grunted. Zevran, looking up, saw that Dorian had a hand under the Bull's chin, tipping his head back. 

Both were smiling.

"You loved the stories about the Templar barracks," Dorian said.

One had no interest in becoming the emotional centre of the thing, but Zevran might all the same have begun to feel entirely too left out, had Dorian not turned towards him then, smile still in place, still as soft. Had he not stretched out a hand to beckon Zevran back over and—a surprise—kissed him, quite tender. At odds with the bravado, with the wicked promise of competition.

"Hmm," Zevran said, leaning into it, eyes lidded and body beginning to wake pleasantly to the slow pleasure of the thing. Drew back only far enough to smile, to see the dampness of Dorian's lips, the darkness of his eyes. "Do tell me you'll share with me later."

"Oh," Dorian said, "and I thought I was sharing with you already."

And that he was. Nodded approval at the cord Zevran offered him, the turn of his body to allow Zevran to see the process. Quick efficient knots, quite beautiful things but applied without so very much ceremony.

"I know a woman who could set you up with a very good career at sea," Zevran said. "May I?"

Space granted. He tested the tautness of the cord, traced the lines already wound around the Bull's arms, once, twice, again until he was sure he understood the pattern. 

"You going to get on with it?" the Bull asked, but he was relaxed under Zevran's attentions.

"Oh no," Zevran said. Stroked a hand across the small of the Bull's back, rubbed at his hip. "I thought we might enjoy a little suspense. I was rather surprised that you would be interested in being tied up, you know—you struck me as more the type to do the tying. But I see you're _ever_ so interested. Why hurry?"

The Bull huffed laughter again.

Dorian made a thoughtful little noise, low in his throat. "Did you tie him up last time, Bull? I imagine he enjoys that sort of thing."

"Should've," the Bull said, grunted as Zevran tugged at the web of knots, jerking his shoulders back for a moment.

Zevran bent forward to kiss the nape of his neck, unapologetic. How warm he was. Had always been. More expected in Ansburg than the great frozen South, but there it was.

"You didn't even gag me," he said mournfully.

"For shame," Dorian said. Oh, this laughter, it _was_ good. One ought always be able to laugh in bed, when it wasn't business. "Not even with his cock?"

"Not even that," Zevran said.

Another kiss, across the Bull's shoulder. Dorian smiled into it. His hand, when they parted, was curled protectively around the back of the Bull's neck. The light scratch of nails against the base of his skull, surely more comforting than teasing.

"Hey," the Bull said, "Didn't hear you complaining at the time."

"Ah," Zevran said, "but I received _such_ a stern talking to from my landlady afterwards. Zevran, you are a disturbance of the peace! Zevran, will you not think of the children! It was a charming performance in its way, I admit, but it cost me my room." A laugh. "Still, there are always more beds, I have found. If one is charming and handsome enough."

"Bull," Dorian said, taking in some expression on the Bull's face which was to Zevran invisible. Dorian's own face was—well, soft. Care, of course. But what else? Reproach. "You ought to have told me you enjoyed people taking their time over tying you up. Really."

A hand between the Bull's legs, Zevran thought, if the minute shift of the Bull's hips was any indication—fondling at his cock, or at his balls. 

He must be hard, or getting there.

"Well, one must retain a little mystery, surely," Zevran said.

A sharp bark of laughter from Dorian. "Mystery, from a man in those trousers?"

But he leant in to kiss the Bull all the same, moaned a little at whatever it was the Bull did—a bite to the lip? A swipe of the tongue?

"You're all talk," the Bull said. "You love it."

"Maker help me," Dorian said, and stood; leaned in over the Bull, the barest margin of height granted to him, despite the raised frame of the bed, by the Bull's spread knees, his weight sunk back onto heels. Kissed the Bull upon the brow. Another of those moments of incongruity. Significance in details.

Dorian's eyes were closed. A stillness to his face. He lingered.

The Bull's shoulders shifted with a heavy inhale, an unsteady exhale.

"So," Dorian said, opened his eyes to smirk at Zevran again as though the moment before had never happened. "Bull. What would you have of us?"

"Shit, you're not pulling your punches," the Bull said. Breathe through the nose. The dip of his head bracketed Dorian with his great horns. 

"Oh really," Zevran said. "We are at your disposal, you know. Is it well?"

A beat.

"It's well," the Bull said. 

Zevran kept his eyes on Dorian, who nodded.

"Go on," the Bull said, finally. "Show Zevran here how much you love sucking my dick."

"Oh," Dorian said. His eyes crinkled with silent laughter. "Now I feel it's you who isn't pulling your punches. How can he hope to keep up with me in that task?"

"My mouth is renowned," Zevran said.

Dorian's smile deepened. "I'm certain it is."

A hand under the Bull's elbow helped him up, steadied him while he stretched his legs; encouraged him to sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. Another speaking silence.

And then Dorian sank easily to his knees: a practiced gesture, a touch of showman's flourish. To see him, Zevran found it necessary to lean against the Bull's back, and so against his bound arms; elbows to the Bull's shoulders to keep his full weight from the Bull's arms. Cheek against his neck. The Bull let out a breathy grunt at the moment of strain as Zevran settled himself, but shook his head at Zevran's murmured query.

The criss-cross of the ropes over the Bull's arms and back rubbed, all the same, against Zevran's stomach, his chest. Soft and taut, a teasing slide when he shifted. 

Oh, Dorian _did_ enjoy this. His lips, slightly parted, against the shaft of the Bull's half-hard cock; a slow breath through the nose. His eyes had fallen shut. His hands slid along the Bull's thighs, knee to hip. A kiss to the tip, still sheathed in foreskin; gentle play with lips and tongue, with fingers; a little suck here, foreskin carefully pulled back, slid into place again. 

The Bull grew hard, slowly, slowly, his cock swelling steadily under Dorian's attentions. Long and thick, and Zevran had taken all of that once, felt it stretch him so thoroughly open, fuck him so deeply, that he had been inclined to offer thanks to the Maker for the entire experience.

Dorian looked up at them, smirked at whatever he saw.

Took the head of the Bull's cock at last all the way into his mouth, and swallowed deliberately around it.

Zevran felt the Bull's deep grunt of pleasure in his chest, echoed it softly himself—the sight of it all. The tensing of the Bull's body against his.

The Bull's arms flexed against the restraints.

"You wish you could put your hands in his hair, don't you," Zevran said. "Mm—it would be a picture, I admit. But I'm afraid you're at our mercy, my friend. All you have to do is say what you want. Tell us what you enjoy. I'm very interested to know. I'm sure it's perfectly filthy."

It took a moment to understand that the noise Dorian made was laughter, made strange by the stretch of his lips around the Bull's cock.

"Are you now," the Bull said, but there was strain to his voice. His hips jerked, a hastily suppressed movement that made Dorian moan.

Zevran did not know him well, not as a person, but they had on sight recognised one another all the same: of a type, two liars using what pieces of the truth could be made to suit. Oh, the Bull reacted honestly, but surely it was only because it pleased him to. He had used himself as a tool for Zevran's pleasure, before; it would not have been evident had it not been a familiar tactic. 

This is how it is, this is what we did under the Qun. Do. 

Oh, we definitely fuck. But it's not about intimacy. 

A partial truth, perhaps, or simply another perspective. Sten's mouth twisted in distaste at the idea of simply fucking who one pleased—fucking at all, or merely fucking in the Southern fashion. It is outside my role. The act is distasteful. We leave it to those qualified. Obvious relief at the fact as he spoke it. What is the Qun, and what is the individual under it? Is one person's Qun the same as another's? Naturally not, as one person's Crows are not the same as another's. 

I find sex best when it is very _much_ about intimacy, Zevran said. If only for a night. Or an afternoon, if you prefer.

The Bull had only laughed.

And how interestingly the years must have treated him to lead him here, to the bed of some Northern mage, their relationship so intimately familiar. To this, giving himself into another's hands, not as a tool but as an entire being. Known, and knowing.

The familiarity of it ached in Zevran.

"Fuck, Dorian," the Bull said. He was panting, almost. The shift of his body with each heavy breath pulled the rope binding him against Zevran's skin. Against the Bull's arms, his cock was entirely hard, although he had done no more than frott a little, idly, enjoying the show.

How could one read smugness from a man who had a great deal of cock in his mouth? Unclear; but Dorian contrived to emit it, all the same. His shoulders relaxed, his hands loose on the Bull's legs. 

Slowly, he withdrew. Slowly, his eyes slid open.

"Should I make you come, or should I let Zevran have his turn first?" he asked. 

"Fuck," the Bull said again, head bowed, voice hushed, in an attitude of prayer. "Get me off. Gotta make it a fair comparison, right?"

Something hot, then, in Dorian's gaze. 

Truly, Zevran had lost before he could begin. He could see it in the way they touched each other, in those moments of heat. They were something he could not reach, was permitted only to see.

No shame to that manner of loss. The process promised to be extremely satisfying. 

"I quite agree," he said. A little breathless, to his own surprise. 

The Bull laughed. Zevran wondered what expression he wore. "Damn," he said, "you're getting off on just watching, huh?"

"Mm, I am," Zevran said. "And why not? I appreciate beautiful things."

"As you should," Dorian said. "Don't trouble to hold back, then."

And they did not. The Bull's hips, jerking unsteadily even with the limitations placed upon him. The mess Dorian made of himself, of his perfect veneer. Hair falling damp across his brow.

Zevran missed the exact moment, face buried against the Bull's neck, teetering himself on the uncertain edge that could become release, one hand loose on his cock. Felt it, the abrupt tension, the force of the shudder that ran through the Bull's body. His choked cry. Looked only to see Dorian sat back on his heels, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He was still hard, his cock hanging neglected between his spread thighs.

The Bull shuddered again with the ghost of the thing; and Zevran, tightening his hand on himself, came finally with a shocked gasp all across the Bull's arms and the line of his spine. Yet another shudder from the Bull, lesser but definite. A shift in his breathing.

Dorian stood, beautiful indeed in the low light, as though he had imagined or created himself as a thing to be seen in this way. Warm skin illuminated, pale eyes smudged into dark softness by khol. His lips glistened as he smiled, the curve of them rendered mysterious and enticing by the shadowing of his face. A trace of the Bull's come. This sort of artistry Zevran knew well; appreciated, knowing what it cost.

Two kisses. For the Bull, Dorian was fierce and unrestrained, clutched at him, held him. Hands on the sides of the face. An almost transcendent expression mirrored from face to face, seen only fleetingly, in profile, and gone before either saw the other's face. 

For Zevran, he was playful, smiling. Bitterness on the tongue, a promise of something to come—

So to speak.

 

 

Pause for breath. Dorian untied the Bull with deft hands, rubbed the strain from his muscles. The quiet stir of magic against shoulders and elbows, easing away soreness perhaps. A small mouthful of brandy drunk straight from the bottle. Laughter. The Bull seemed almost a little subdued, but nodded at every question Dorian murmured to him. Sinking into it, only, perhaps. Dorian seemed satisfied. This time, he kissed the Bull softly; Zevran, fiercely. Teeth scraped against his lip. But laughter to it, still.

Drink again. Never much. Not for this. A taste, merely. We Northerners, so practiced at seeming to drink more than we do.

The slow work of binding the Bull for the second time, then, with Dorian's hands lingering—he had been watching Zevran, of course. Cataloguing. Another sharp mind, a quick study, interested. 

Invested.

"You are the youngest of us, I think, and you have yet to come once," Zevran observed. "Have pity on your elders and don't let us get ahead of you."

Dorian smiled. "I don't need to, yet." Another loop of rope, a considering silence. "But I could be persuaded. If it will make you feel better, in your infirmity."

"This one has quite the mouth on him," Zevran told the Bull. "In several ways, it would seem. Shall I see if I can make him forget how to use it?"

The laughter was a quiet thing now, but genuine, reaching his eye. Yes, yes, it was peace after all, then. A peace that could only come from a deeper sort of trust that granted in moments. Beneath it, the Bull was still present and sharp. Tempered, merely.

"Yeah," the Bull said. "Oh, yeah." Where he had sat very straight with Zevran at his back, he was relaxing into Dorian, but he straightened enough to hold himself without that support at the suggestion.

"How would you have me, then?" Dorian asked.

Dorian's hands on the Bull's shoulders, the two of them face to face. Let them see it, each other. Zevran had settled Dorian low enough that he could have fucked him like this, let the Bull see Dorian's expression as Zevran thrust into him; rested instead against him, rolled his hips slowly, let Dorian feel Zevran's cock against his arse, even soft as it was. With Dorian supported by the Bull's sturdy bulk, he was free to explore; both hands between Dorian's legs, tugging through coarse dark hair. Touching, experimentally, his cock, then his balls; testing for response, for cues. Playing, a little.

Dorian groaned, shifted. "I ought to have said no. You wretched tease."

"But are you saying no?" Zevran asked, withdrawing a little, hands on Dorian's hips. One could be soothing, if required.

"Vishante kaffas, _I am not,_ " Dorian said, all spark and no heat. "Would you please make up your mind as to what you're doing and touch me properly. _Fuck_ me."

"I think you'll find that was rather counter to the point of this exercise," Zevran, said, both relieved and amused; allowed himself a moment to instead spread his hands across Dorian's chest, to scrape nails carefully against his nipples. And to what satisfactory result: Dorian gasped, arched, ground back against Zevran. To judge by the noise the Bull made, his face must have been quite something. 

"If you are truly too infirm to perform again," Dorian snapped, broke off in a gasp as Zevran slid his hands back up Dorian's chest once again, pinched and tugged. " _If_ that's—mm—the case—I recommend you choose a toy."

"I see," Zevran said; leant forward to suck a bruising mark into Dorian's shoulder, and earned another gasp. Laid a softer kiss upon the spot. "A man of particular tastes, then?"

"A man with a particular interest in being fucked right this moment," Dorian said primly. "I'll thank you not to generalise." The quality of an in-joke, quiet laughter from the Bull. 

"And who am I to deny you," Zevran said; slid a hand down the length of Dorian's back as he withdrew, rubbed lightly at his hip again. "Where?"

"Drawer below the rope," Dorian said. "There's nothing there I haven't a mind to take tonight. Please yourself."

"Antivan tastes, I see," Zevran said, hovering with his hand over one delicately crafted piece, and then another. Beautifully worked things of a sort he had never seen in the South, but which was eminently familiar to him. Ah, it had been a _good_ day when Isabela had discovered that particular shop. The benefits had been lasting for all involved.

But to the task at hand. The very large would perhaps not do for this moment, despite a slight temptation to see how Dorian took them. But rather—there, a little larger only than Zevran's own cock, but interestingly ridged and twisted, rather broadly swelled just above the base, where it flared wide enough to be used as a plug

Dorian laughed. "Not Tevinter tastes, at least."

"No indeed," Zevran agreed. "Not nearly enough implements aimed at producing humiliating results. Which is fine, by the way. I've little taste for it myself, these days."

"You would hardly be here if you did," Dorian said, and in the softness of his words there was something rather closer to truth than Zevran had yet heard from him.

"Is that so," Zevran murmured. "Well then. Let us turn ourselves to Antivan pleasure instead, without shame."

How readily Dorian responded to Zevran's slicked fingers. How easily Dorian's body relaxed into pleasure, opening to him. His hands were clenched on the Bull's shoulders. His head hung against the Bull's chest.

"Kiss him," Zevran said, slid another finger in, turned his hand slowly until Dorian's body jolted at that perfect bit of pressure. "Show a little of that strength of yours."

"Oh," Dorian moaned, and lifted himself. An act of will.

The Bull bowed his head to meet him halfway, lips parted, but didn't kiss him; simply waited, chest rising and falling. A harsh edge to his breathing. Zevran longed, then, to see the expression on his face—felt it might belong to some version of the Bull that few people had ever known. Suspected the shape of it in the line of the Bull's shoulders.

Dorian kissed him. A messy thing, barely finding his mouth. The Bull groaned, as though the sound were torn from him.

"Sit up a little," Zevran said. "Do you need to see what I'm about to fuck you with?"

Dorian shuddered a laugh. "I very much do not. All I _require_ is that you get on with it."

For that, Zevran teased him a little more; had already slicked the toy, warmed it between his hands, but now only pressed it lightly against Dorian's arse, rubbed with the tip so that it could almost have slid inside, pulled it back again.

Dorian's noise of frustration was quite nearly a growl. The Bull echoed it.

"Patience, my friends," Zevran said. "Patience. I have heard it is a virtue."

"To the void with virtue," Dorian said. "I am not a virtuous man."

"Oh, well then," Zevran said, and pushed the first inch of the toy into Dorian without further preamble; watched in fascination as Dorian shifted around it, tried to bear down and cursed when he found no leverage. Smirked up at the Bull, helplessly motionless, leaning a little into Dorian's hands. "Do you wish you could touch him?" he asked, let his laughter into his eyes but not his voice.

The Bull had no words for him, only a noise of frustration in his throat.

"You could hold him to you as I fucked him, tangle your hands in his hair—that's the sort of thing, I believe?"

"Please," the Bull said. Hoarse.

"Is it well?" Zevran prompted gently.

"Yes," the Bull said. Heaved a breath, struggled for a moment to find himself. Settled, finally, with Dorian's face against his neck, Dorian's mouth pressing kisses to the corner of his jaw. "You heard what the man wants." Another breath, sighed out. "Get on with it."

More and more. Dorian gasped at every ridge, his hips shifting unsteadily. Kissed the Bull again on the lips as though he needed the anchor. Or perhaps as though the Bull needed it.

Zevran held him with a hand on his hip. Cursed, himself, as the last broad swell of the thing slid into Dorian more easily than he would have believed possible.

He left it be there, thigh pressed up between Dorian's legs to jostle it, hands on Dorian's hips to shift him, shift the angle of the toy inside him. His own cock at last showing signs of interest where it was pressed to the side of Dorian's arse. A slow swell, and it would take him a while to become fully hard again. 

They had the time.

Dorian, when Zevran finally reached for his cock, was achingly hard, wet at the tip.

"You would come from so little now, wouldn't you," Zevran said, changed the angle of his thigh against the base of the toy and felt Dorian twitch in his hand. "But it seems almost a shame for this part to be over so quickly. Perhaps I should leave you untouched. Let the Bull here see you struggle to come."

Eye contact. The smallest of nods from the Bull.

Zevran's hand settled on Dorian's balls, tugging gently and then soothing, stroking.

"Perhaps you should," Dorian said. Terse, almost, and oh, wasn't that interesting. The Bull's eye had gone back to Dorian, intent.

"Very well," Zevran said, with solemnity, and returned to holding Dorian at the hip, to exploring the rim of his hole where it stretched; turning the base of the toy idly, tugging at it too gently to remove it. A finger to the upper edge to tilt it.

"Fuck me," Dorian demanded again, and cried out when Zevran obeyed; slid the largest part of the thing carefully out of Dorian, and fucked him ruthlessly with the rest of the shaft, not deeply but hard, letting the textured shape of the thing do its work. He tested only with the broader bulk of it, a little further, a little more. Every sharp thrust shocked a sound from Dorian—open noises, uninhibited, but growing ever more ragged.

When Zevran stopped teasing and thrust the entirety of it back into him, he shouted and fell heavily forward against the Bull, his hips jerking hard, erratic. He had indeed come, from no more than that; spilled all across the Bull's leg, across his half-hard cock. His cheek pressed to the Bull's chest. The Bull bowed his head, turned it, the tilt of his horns strange; pressed his own cheek to Dorian's hair. A curiously obvious gesture, I want to touch you, I would be holding you right now.

Zevran stroked Dorian's back as he shivered through it. Kept a careful eye on the Bull, mindful of the fact that they trod close to some line.

"Mm," Zevran said. "I wonder how many times we can come on you tonight, if we put our minds to it."

Dorian's laughter was breathy, a little shocked. But he said: "We might very well come in him, you know."

" _Fuck_ ," the Bull said.

"Ah," Zevran said, although anticipation flared through him, "I see I have failed to silence you after all."

He reached down to pull the toy from Dorian, but Dorian only made a low noise of protest. "Leave it." A long slow breath, inhale, hold, exhale. His body clenched, relaxed, as though testing the feeling. "I'll take care of it myself if need be."

"A man after my own heart," Zevran said. Smirked against Dorian's back. "Or somebody's, at least."

No protest for that? None.

When Zevran straightened, Dorian's hand was pressed to the Bull's chest, flat palmed. His face was turned against the Bull's neck, hidden from view.

And the Bull's expression was—well then.

"I believe," Zevran said, "that we were competing."

 

 

To repeat an experiment you limit the variables, Dorian said, quite unnecessarily, but with glittering humour. Zevran on his knees on the floor, Dorian at the Bull's back. Dorian's floor was covered in woven rugs, mismatched—appropriated or misappropriated in the general way of the inquisition, no doubt, from every corner of the world. They softened the hardness of the floor a touch against Zevran's legs, kept the chill of the stone from him. A Tevinter serpent knotted itself beneath his knees. Under the Bull's foot, a distinctly Orlesian rendering of a Fereldan border motif.

Dorian and the Bull murmured quietly to each other above him, intimately filthy words. Dorian's fingers caressed the hollow of the Bull's throat. His lips brushed the shell of the Bull's ear.

His eyes were on Zevran, his face composed once more, although his body was restless, shifting back and forth in minute movements—testing the feeling of the toy he had yet to remove. Holding himself idly aroused, without urgency. 

Wicked, wicked, always such a wicked smile. He must have practiced wearing it in bed a thousand times. A mirror, a shield. A promise, also.

Zevran matched it. Held Dorian's gaze for a drawn out moment as he leant forward. Looked to the Bull only when Dorian glanced away, saw that his eye was closed, his head tipped forward. 

Dorian's left hand was on his shoulder, rubbing gently. Impossible to see what he was doing with the right, but Zevran had a sudden suspicion. The twist of his body, weight to one side, as though—

Dorian whispered something; whispered it against the Bull's skin, mouth pressed to the space beside his hand. Zevran heard only the form of it, like a question. The words were obscure.

The Bull groaned.

"Now," Zevran said, "grant me a _little_ of your attention, if you would. A talent such as mine deserves proper appreciation."

And he leant forward to close his lips around the tip of the Bull's cock. 

A deep breath through the nose. Sex and fresh sweat. Salt on the tongue, a little bitter. The drag of slight ridging hidden on the underside of the head, distinct against his tongue. He gave himself a moment only to savour this, get a feel for it, weight and bulk, taste.

Swallowed experimentally. Above him, the Bull gave a soft sigh; settled, as it seemed. His legs spread a little wider; his body tilted forward. Dorian, steadying him, holding him there. Settling himself lower onto the bed, a surprised little noise spilling from him as he did so—as though he had almost forgotten the plug, or not anticipated it hitting some pleasant angle. Zevran could not see him, but felt his every movement in the shift of the mattress—felt it echoed through the shift of the Bull's body.

The Bull, fucking him against a tree, made loud, extravagant noises; a show of pleasure like his show of strength, like drinking hard and laughing so the whole room paused. Grinned fiercely. A living thing, intense. Controlled and wild.

The Bull, with Zevran's mouth on his cock and Dorian's hand holding him in place, Dorian's fingers, perhaps, reaching beneath him to press against his hole, sighed again, _oh—_

Tremulous. Lost, almost. What did he feel? It was clear that he _felt._

Zevran kissed his cock, kissed the inside of his thigh, pulled back to watch him, to make certain.

The Bull's eye opened at the loss of touch, hazy and questioning.

"Don't stop," he said.

Dorian was undoubtedly teasing him, playing at almost fingering him, Zevran could see now. 

"Oh," Zevran said, satisfied, "should I not? Hmm, but it might be interesting to see how much torment you can take."

He drew a finger delicately up the underside of the Bull's cock, along the thickest vein. Tapped the pad of it against the head.

That got a laugh, unsteady as it was.

"There," Dorian said, and shifted again, and the Bull's laugh shaded towards a moan. "This angle is hopeless, you know."

"Don't know about that," the Bull said tightly. "It's working pretty well for me."

"No consideration for my poor hands," Dorian said. An aching fondness. 

To balance on the edge of a future, to be comfortable and trusting and besotted but all the same not yet certain, thrilling at every moment and holding every touch in one's mind. Oh, time had made the memory of his own feelings more romantic, shaded them with nostalgia, but it had surely been an experience.

"Hey," the Bull said, shuddered pleasantly, "you're always telling me they're magic. Wiggle them better later."

Zevran, smiling, bent himself once again to his task. No easy one; Dorian had the advantage of practice, and Zevran knew his own limits well enough to resign himself to avoiding any sort of attempt at going for depth. Talented and experienced he might be, but cocks of these particular proportions were not in entirely ready supply.

A little pressure around the head, kisses all along the shaft. Zevran learnt every half-familiar line of the Bull's cock. He lent special attention to those interesting little ridges, to the folds of the Bull's foreskin. 

The Bull cursed, groaned.

Zevran took the Bull's balls in his hand, stroked and tugged carefully, constant little touches. Pressed his fingers up behind them as he took a little more of the Bull's cock into his mouth. Stroked experimentally. Oh, to be able to reach just a little further back, feel whatever it was that Dorian was managing to do with his hand curled awkwardly under the Bull. 

The angle of the Bull's body prohibited it. 

Well, time for that later too, surely. 

Hands and mouth. Now to tease, now to overwhelm. Focus. Make it good. 

However many people the two of them decided to take to their bed, and may they be many—they should know he was the best. Pride dictated this much. It must be done well—a good rule, the only rule that mattered.

Besides, didn't the Bull deserve it? Allowing them so much. Leaving so much of his control in their hands.

Zevran's own arousal was a hazy thing, nebulous. Oh, not weak, but slow and intense. It held him like mist.

He let his mind grow quiet, and felt, and felt. Measured the Bull's reactions, only. The quiet hitch of Dorian's breath.

When the Bull came, Zevran didn't trouble to try and swallow all of it; let it spill obscenely across his skin, watching the Bull from beneath his lashes, and was content. If there was a moment where he had thought to kiss the Bull, smear his come across his skin—if in that moment he had caught the flicker of a strange new tension in Dorian and turned his face away instead—well, these things were as they were.

Dorian was happy enough to drag his fingers across Zevran's lips, to lick them fastidiously clean.

The moment passed.

 

 

Water. Zevran sat leaning against the wall, the stone cool on his back; let his cock be between his legs, although he was still fairly hard. Dorian, likewise, was stretched idly out on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, giving every impression of unconcern; turned his cup back and forth in his hand as though considering it. He had not troubled to remove the toy; Zevran was beginning to suspect some sort of particular interest at work.

The Bull, rolling his shoulders, smiled at Dorian's free hand brushing against his calf.

"Have we exhausted you, then?" Dorian asked. "Are you to declare a victor?"

The Bull laughed. "I'm good for another round. You had some things to say to me earlier. I haven't forgotten."

"Which things would those be?" Dorian asked, smiling too. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Hmm," the Bull said; shook out his arms, arched his spine until it cracked, settled with a contented sigh. "The part where the two of you come in me."

"Were you considering this as two events, or as one?" Dorian asked.

Still that sense of laughter between them. They know this script already, Zevran thought. It was not that it felt like a stilted recitation of lines; rather, it was a little too practiced. I am a piece in some game, and not even they are sure of all the rules.

He didn't mind.

"Hey, I'm a big guy," the Bull said. "You think I can't take two dicks at once? Pretty sure you've fucked me with things bigger than both your dicks put together."

What an image.

"How terribly crude," Dorian said, in obvious delight. "I suppose we'll have to see, won't we?"

"If I can take it, or if you'll give it to me?"

"Oh, both," Dorian said. Shifted his weight to stretch out a hand, beckoning the Bull down for a brief, smiling kiss. Looked to Zevran. "What are your thoughts?"

Zevran considered the two of them, the whole of the Bull's body turning easily towards Dorian, Dorian's turning to the Bull. 

"I do have a suggestion," he said finally. "Although it may not be on the table. I shan't be offended, if so. It might, I imagine, be—sensitive. But sensitive is not necessarily bad, I think?"

Two fingers to the base of Dorian's spine. 

"Go on," Dorian said. His back arched a little further at the touch.

"As you say," Zevran said, "this man of yours cannot be trusted to be compliant."

"No," Dorian agreed.

"But if we tie him in the same way again, I imagine some practical difficulties may arise."

"And so you have another suggestion," Dorian said.

His hand caught the Bull's, turned it, inspected it—a pretend inspection, like his consideration of his cup. But the slow curl of his fingers was more convincing.

The Bull remained silent. Well, that seemed to be the game, didn't it? A part of the game, at least. The Bull, judged and judging. Submitting to their whims, and allowing them to serve him. Measuring it, always.

"Oh yes," Zevran said. "I know that the Bull promised you the two of you were not to be tied together, but perhaps in a strictly literal way it could be allowed."

" _Oh,_ " Dorian said. His fingers curled a little tighter on the Bull's hand. "I—"

Zevran thought of Dorian kissing the Bull as he was fucked. Thought of Dorian's hand laid over the Bull's heart. His notable lack of protest.

Perhaps Dorian thought of these things too. He was interestingly flushed again.

The Bull laced their fingers together carefully.

"Yes," Zevran said. "Just so. If you like."

"How entirely ludicrous," Dorian said. "You intend to enact some perversion of a heartfelt southern rite, I assume." And then, "in which case I accept, of course."

 

 

One must, of course, be impressed by the sheer strength and endurance of the Bull. How long had he strained away with his arms behind his back, knelt despite the fact that his leg bore old wounds? He had received assistance, yes. But a little healing between rounds, that was nothing.

He was on all fours now, hands on Dorian's, looped around with a fine, soft cord. As though he were pinning him—a powerful image, a gorgeous one. 

Oh, but I have more than enough magical strength left to keep him from lifting me up, Dorian had said, self-satisfied. Twists and turns. Games in games.

He had swallowed, all the same, as Zevran tied the knots; had held Zevran's gaze for a space of five heartbeats before he nodded permission to continue. The Bull watched them in waiting silence. Masked, for that moment.

"I will let you up when you need it, never fear. And I have faith in your ability to extract yourself should it become necessary in a more hasty manner than I can account for," Zevran said, patted his cheek, and Dorian only gave him a raised eyebrow for response. "Yes, yes, I'm terribly patronising. That Zevran, my tutor always said, he believes he knows so very much better than everyone else. We must hope he grows out of it, if he does not die of it! But I never did either. I remain alive, and it remains one of my many vices. When you reach the lofty age of forty, you will doubtless be far worse. There you are."

"You talk a lot, huh," the Bull said. His head hung heavily between his shoulders. The points of his horns were no more than a hand-span above the bed, framing Dorian where he lay. 

His fingers flexed against Dorian's.

"You have no idea," Zevran told him.

Dorian laughed, weakly. His head was rolled back, eyes closed.

"I think you should look at him," Zevran told him. "See his expression while I open him up for your cock."

"Yes," Dorian said. Three slow breaths. His eyes drifted open in increments.

"Hey," the Bull said quietly.

Dorian smiled.

There.

"Well then," Zevran said, and swatted lightly at the Bull's arse on his way to collect the oil.

"Oh, you _would_ like that," Dorian said, and added, with a degree of escalation that Zevran was beginning to suspect was typical, "Ought I to take a paddle to you some day, is that it?"

Quite probably, if the sound the Bull made was any indication. Wasn't it a joy to introduce people to the possible wonders of life.

 

 

The Bull clenched around Zevran's fingers, the sounds he made edging on breathless again. Zevran, stroking soothingly at the small of his back, at his hip, was amazed at the picture he made, hips raised, weight slanted forwards across Dorian's shoulder. With his arms on the bed, the map of his life written in scars across his back became more readily legible. There, a knife had sunk neatly between his ribs, must have punctured his lung. There, another attempt had skidded sideways across the bone. The downswing of an unidentifiable edged weapon left its line on the shoulder, must have notched the scapula at least.

A scar low on his side that was Zevran's. Snake venom and deathroot. 

Zevran, standing above him beside the bed, bent and kissed it with reverence.

He had not left that fight unmarked himself, but he was particular about healing; to be heavily scarred was to lose one's appearance of soft vanity, and that would have been fatal to a man who in his youth had bedded so many of his marks, who for many more since had been a harmless little plaything of some other sort. Call it camouflage. Only the smallest and most charming marks of existence. Lines of curving tattoos disguised wounds that had healed poorly. See, I am beautiful. A romantic ideal of an assassin, who can surely be persuaded to spare you.

Habits remained.

"How handsome he is, this Qunari of yours," Zevran told Dorian, pushing his luck. "Do you like his expression? It will be even better, you know, when we fuck him. I think he might take one of our cocks now. Yours, do you think? Mine?"

Dorian made an indistinct noise, _oh,_ hips twisting. His leg kicked against air, sliding against Zevran's thigh, stretched out, without purchase.

"Mine," he said, hoarse.

A little shifting to make him comfortable, Zevran making a studied play of gentleness. He kissed their hands where they tangled together, tied and grasping, by Dorian's head; turned his face to steal a soft kiss from Dorian although the Bull was right there above them, close enough to feel the way his breath stuttered from him against their cheeks.

He did not try to kiss the Bull again; knew a previously unsuspected limit when he saw one.

"Here, then," he said, drawing back; guided the Bull, with firm hands, down and back until he knelt over Dorian's cock, the head of it barely pressing against his hole. Held him there, slid two fingers into him again, curled them to find where the Bull was most sensitive; guided him down a little more, so that the head of Dorian's cock pressed firmly against him, almost into him, without Zevran removing his fingers.

"Damn," the Bull said. " _Damn_ —crap—that's—uh—"

"Not yet," Zevran said, and slid his fingers free; dragged them, still slick, over Dorian's cock. A little more oil, a lazy stroke. Dropped his hand between Dorian's legs to press against the base of the toy he had refused, again, to remove; and at the same time, pulled firmly at the Bull's hip, pressing him down at last onto Dorian's cock.

Dorian cried out—no quiet noise of pleasure, but full-throated, as though torn from him, caught between the twin points of pressure. The Bull grunted, hips jerking, back down, more and more, uncautious; settled himself there, in forced stillness, with nearly the whole of Dorian's cock inside him.

Zevran, who might be gentle but was not particularly kind, allowed himself an exploratory moment, fingers on the base of Dorian's cock, on his tight balls, on the rim of the Bull's hole where he and Dorian were joined.

"Fuck yourself a little," he said; lay a hand firmly on Dorian's leg to still him, pressed the other once more up against the toy, twisted it, tugged at it until Dorian made a noise that was almost pained, _more, more_. "No, let him do the work."

The Bull rolled his hips slowly, shifted a little, testing. Settled finally into a rhythm, up slowly and down sharply, both he and Dorian groaning every time Dorian's cock was pushed into the Bull's body. Easier and easier movements, and Dorian was trembling, fucking and being fucked, close to orgasm now. His spine was a bow, arched off the bed.

The Bull kissed him urgently. More.

"Not yet," Zevran said again. Finger and thumb to the base of Dorian's cock, a harsh grip that had Dorian snarling frustration for the moment it took for his mind to catch up, to remember the game.

He went as slack as he could, sunk back against the bed.

Zevran left his hand where it was, kept the Bull in place, not letting him pull off. Three heartbeats, thudding heavy and out of sync through their bodies.

He waited until all of them were breathing steadily again before he drew his finger up to the Bull's rim, paused there, firm pressure, a question. "Yes?"

The Bull swallowed. "Yeah."

Slowly, slowly. The Bull was so tight around Zevran's fingers and Dorian's cock, for all his casual bravado at the idea before they had begun. He shook, cursed; relaxed and clenched, relaxed again.

Dorian held himself very still, through will alone as it seemed; the tension of suppressed motion in every part of him. He was transfixed, staring up at the Bull, mouth open.

"Remember to breathe," Zevran said, although he was inclined, himself, to forget. Whispered words. It felt harder to speak now, to be flippant. The way they _looked_ at each other. Saw, perhaps, some true part of one another.

By the time the Bull was finally loose enough for Zevran to work his cock carefully in alongside Dorian's, they had settled into a heavy silence, not oppressive but engulfing. Harsh breaths. The slick noises of sex. Zevran cradled Dorian's leg, fingers oil-slick against his skin. Short shallow thrusts, a little deeper each time. Despite long preparation, the tightness was incredible.

Strands of Zevran's hair, escaped from its braid, clung damply to his face.

If only one could have seen Dorian's face as the thing happened. If only one could have seen the Bull's.

Stillness, their bodies pressed tightly together. Zevran's cock against Dorian's inside the Bull, Zevran's balls rubbing against Dorian's with every little shift.

He gritted his teeth, shifted his weight unsteadily, planting his feet for better leverage.

"Move already," the Bull said, strained. "Fuck, it's not _enough._ "

Dorian surged up to kiss him, his cock shifting at the motion, the toy presumably jostling inside him; cried out again against the Bull's mouth. Desperate kissing, noisy in its lack of restraint.

Zevran's hips jerked of their own accord.

Thrust and thrust and thrust. More oil, overcautious. Zevran groaned between his teeth as his cock shifted more freely, thrust harder, again, again. Dorian was still, twitching only, little circular movements of his hips, feeling more than fucking.

His forehead pressed to the Bull's. They panted together.  
"Bull," Dorian said. "Bull, I—oh, oh—"

He came, cried out in surprise, his whole body moving convulsively. Zevran felt it against his hands, felt the tightness of Dorian's balls against his. Felt the pulse of it against his _cock_ , more definite with them pressed together this way than he had ever felt it merely from frotting. It was so _much_ , so filthy. 

The Bull clenched down hard around them; came himself with no more of a touch to his cock than whatever friction he had managed to find against Dorian's stomach. He came silently, shakily, as though beyond sound, and it seemed to Zevran that he held eye contact with Dorian the entire time, although he could not know for certain. 

That was it for Zevran too. His nails dug hard into Dorian's leg as he spilled inside the Bull, gasping over and over again, his whole body heated and sparking pleasure, all the tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter in him snapping loose at once.

 

 

He let Dorian and the Bull lie together, the Bull's great bulk heavy over Dorian, who seemed entirely disinclined to ever let him up, made small noises of protest when he went to raise himself again onto his elbows; no, stay, please.

He had released himself from the ropes, a quick controlled flash of fire; had done it only to wrap his arms around the Bull's neck, to keep him close.

Zevran helped him tilt his hips, pulled the toy carefully loose from him, let him fall back into his lax state, relieved.

A little of their mingled come spilled from the Bull. Zevran, sliding three fingers carefully into him, met almost no resistance; shifted them around, fascinated, feeling the Bull's looseness, the slick mess of oil and come that remained inside him. Spread him a little so that more slid out, obscene. The Bull hissed at the pressure, oversensitive.

"Should I stop?" Zevran murmured, but the Bull only shook his head. "Hmm. You really are large. I could slide my whole hand into you right now, couldn't I."

 

Muffled laughter against Dorian's neck.

"Yeah," the Bull said. "But you're not going to unless you let Dorian use his magic fingers on me first. You wore me out."

"Another night, perhaps," Zevran said, withdrawing his fingers, wiping them on the Bull's arse. More laughter.

"Well," Dorian said tiredly, rubbed at the back of the Bull's head, curled his fingers against the Bull's neck, "I suppose I must admit you won. Is that your prize?"

"Oh, no," Zevran said. Shifting sand beneath the feet, this. "I may have bested you tonight with all my dirty tricks, but I would never presume to intrude if either of you are less than enthusiastic about the idea. You, my friend, have won in a significantly more lasting manner than I. You should take care of this one. He is quite something."

"Hmm," Dorian said, yawned. Held the Bull tighter. The Bull made an indistinct sound that could have meant anything, but it softened Dorian's expression. "I'm enthusiastic enough. Will you stay the night? There's not much of it left."

"No, certainly not," Zevran said. "I have my own lover's bed to warm. He will want to know that I enjoyed myself. Don't trouble, he can be discrete."

The Bull, who had after all met Brosca earlier that day, laughed. Tired, but genuine.

"In some things, at least," Zevran amended.

Damp cloth to clean them, Dorian and the Bull untangling from each other reluctantly, silent communication passing back and forth between them again.

"Damn, you're good," the Bull told Zevran. "Your guy is lucky to have you."

"But you are easily as lucky, I fancy," Zevran said. Looked from one to the other. Dorian, still flushed, from exertion and emotion both. The Bull, soft, the look on his face so very familiar. He looked at Dorian as Brosca looked at Zevran, unguarded now as it had not seemed possible he could be on their first meeting.

"Yeah," the Bull said. "Reckon so."

Dorian glanced away at those words, but glanced back as quickly. Smiled. "I fancy all of us have been lucky in this experience, at least. It's been a delight. Drink with us again some time."

Easy agreement. A quick kiss to Dorian's cheek, a touch to the Bull's shoulder.

Zevran, quickly dressed in enough of his clothing for decency, left them to it; to quiet murmurs that began almost before he had closed the door, to the Bull's hand laid to Dorian's cheek, to the way their bodies turned to each other as though seeking the sun.

It had begun to grow light, early as the hour was. Guards stepped heavily along the ramparts, the clink of armour, the creak of leather. Clean cool air, the horizon growing pink and orange, scattering light across the snow-topped mountain peaks. No sign of life yet from the servant's quarters or the kitchens, and the great hall echoed emptily at his steps. 

He could have run, laughed. To love, that was splendid, unexpected still, wonderful. Isabela was right: it was freedom, even if it was also home, also responsibility. Seeing love, he felt himself newly in love; foolish as he was, romantic as he was, for all he had fought against his romantic nature in his youth.

In their guest room, Brosca slept fitfully, woke when Zevran closed the door quietly; drew Zevran to him in their bed with sleep-warm arms.

Murmured, "was it good?" and smiled at Zevran's hum of confirmation; kissed him, softly. Touched his face as though blessed to see it. Allowed Zevran's fingers in his hair, messing with the loose braid he kept it in at night.

"Tell me in the morning," he said, drowsy, and Zevran hummed agreement again, settled closer.

Slept.

**Author's Note:**

> [now look at this amazing artwork by serenityfails](http://serenity-fails.tumblr.com/post/144065974990/homsantoft-wrote-this-amazing-beautiful)


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